


Interludes: We Are Not As We Ought To Be

by SaturnineArbiter



Series: The Stars Are But A Current [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, Heavy on worldbuilding, House of Suns - Fusion, Implied Relationships, Lots of blood in the second chapter though, Murder (Not bloody or anything), Playing fast and loose with characterization, Violence, one OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnineArbiter/pseuds/SaturnineArbiter
Summary: Two more shorts, like The Comorbid.Madman: Poppop Crocker commits a murder and has a confrontation.Syzygy: Near the end of the war, the Queens discuss recent events and morality.All that night I did not sleep, as something was warring within my heart.





	1. Madman

**Author's Note:**

> _Toda esa noche no dormí, pues algo estaba combatiendo en mi corazón._  
>  /…/  
>  _Proseguimos la marcha, pues hubiera sido una afrenta retroceder. Algunos temerarios durmieron con la cara expuesta a la luna; la fiebre los ardió; en el agua depravada de las cisternas otros bebieron la locura y la muerte._  
>  /…/
> 
>  
> 
> _All that night I did not sleep, as something was warring within my heart._  
>  /…/  
>  _We persisted with the march, because it would have been an affront to retreat. The reckless among us slept with their faces exposed to the moon; fever burned them; from the depraved waters of the cisterns others drank insanity and death._  
>  /…/  
> 

His hands were bare when he strangled Aidan Kirsch.

Dispassionately, he watched the man’s cheeks darkening as he began to asphyxiate. He knew, intellectually, that he should have worn his gloves; now they would have finger-marks, and he’d have to use alcohol or something to clean his finger prints off of Kirsch’s neck, and he’d have to take care to get it neither on his hands nor his gloves.

Kirsch’s fingers were clawing at Jonathan’s wrists, trying to pry himself free.

Stupid.

He had no chance against Jonathan. He didn’t even know half of Jonathan’s capabilities, despite his arrogant superiority and stylized self-control. When Jonathan had thrown him onto the bed and sat on his stomach like he was playing with a doll, Kirsch’s breath had whooshed out, eyes bugging.

Well. That was normally how people reacted to Jonathan’s weight. Nobody expected him to be that heavy with how small he was. Nobody expected him to be that ridiculously strong, or to be able to rely on his body weight in a fight.

Finally, Kirsch went limp. His heart beat still resonated against Jonathan’s knees where they pressed against the sides of his rib cage and his throat still strained against Jonathan’s hands, but from here it would be a matter of time.

Jonathan shifted his posture, bearing his weight down on the heels of his palms, waiting for the distinctive feeling of Kirsch’s trachea collapsing under them. Carefully locating the sides of the carotid, he held Kirsch’s throat with one hand, with the other rummaging around in his back pocket for a small packet of alcohol.

How kind of the Galodi to make such an old-fashioned room especially for an old-fashioned, arrogant man who Jonathan just happened to have to kill. There were no cameras, no listening devices; he just had to keep his dander and finger oils off of the floor and the room and he’d be out cleanly. And he had very little in the way of detritus that could be left as skin or hair. Jonathan carefully wiped under his palm, avoiding his skin to clean Kirsch’s neck of his finger prints.

How nice of Kirsch to be too sure of himself to have security or even a better weapon than his tiny tight-beam pistol.

Kirsch’s heart beat stopped. Heaving out a sigh, Jonathan sat back against Kirsch’s abdomen. Light, he was going to be late to meet Rue.

Wiping away the last of his finger prints with care, Jonathan slipped off of the bed. He tugged his gloves on carefully, flexing his fingers and unfolding the edges so they overlapped his sleeves.

He opened the door and closed it behind him, using the alcohol to eliminate traces left by the leather of his gloves. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. And at least it would make the investigators think the murderer had been bare-handed, exonerating Jonathan (mostly) from suspicion.

Oops. Someone was in the hall. Jonathan switched his goggles on as quickly as he could. Crap, crap—

Oh. Jonathan gave Jacob Harley a guileless smile, sidling over. Jacob’s expression darkened.

“What were you—”

“Hushhhhhh.” Jonathan leaned up on tip-toes to tap a finger against Jacob’s lips, amused by their height difference. “Shhhh, old man. Let dead men lie.”

Jacob craned his neck back a little bit, arching away from where Jonathan’s forearm brushed his chest. _“Jonathan.”_

“We don’t know each other, right?” Jonathan winked. “It’s okay! Everything’s taken care of. You can go on and play where you want to. Maybe use it to yank your boy around by the heart, hm?”

Jacob tensed, as mentioning that boy was wont to make him do. “I do not _yank him around._ And not by the heart, either. I speak to him. Like someone _ordinary_.”

“You’re not _ordinary_ to him.” Jonathan shrugged. “Time you accepted that, Jacob! He’s a sand box. Go ahead and play. I won’t tell on you.”

“He’s not a sandbox, Jonathan.” Jacob paused, waited. “He’s… he’s wonderful. Precious. You’ve seen him.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Jacooooob. That’s _gross._ I don’t need to know about how you feel about _some boy_! Honestly. Sure, he’s cute. But you have to be careful, Jacob.”

Jacob raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Hmmmmf.” Jonathan blew a puff of hair up from his forehead. “Zhayd and Jo aren’t happy with you. They’re worried about you and… your boy. I don’t wanna, I know you like him, buuuut. If you keep going like that… I’m not going to disobey.”

Immediately, Jonathan’s feet left the ground and his head cracked against the wall, starting a throbbing head ache. He felt Jacob’s knuckles digging bruise-hard into his ribs.

Butting his head forwards, Jonathan knocked it into and let it rest on Jacob’s, squirming his toes down. Rats. He couldn’t feel the ground. Jacob was too tall.

“Yeah. See this?” Jonathan asked softly. He felt Jacob’s breath washing in rapid pants over his face. “This is unacceptable, Jacob. I’m certain Joanna agrees, but as you know, I don’t need her permission for actions taken in the field...”

Jacob jolted forward, fists ramming into Jonathan’s ribcage to knock the wind out of him again. Jonathan wheezed for a while, getting his breath back. How _funny!_ Jacob really was getting easier to rile up.

“ _Jacob.”_

The man paused, hands yanking Jonathan up a few more centimeters. Jonathan’s shirt was sliding up—inevitable—and now his hands were level with Jonathan’s collar and throat. If he tried to slam Jonathan against the wall one more time, Jacob would kill him. Not quickly—it’d take time, fifteen minutes or so, time for the oxygen in Jonathan’s muscles and blood to dissipate, and longer for his body to give up entirely. Jonathan shivered.

“Jacob, are you going to kill me?” Jacob flinched. “Are you going to kill me?”

Jonathan waited for a reply. None came, but Jacob wasn’t breaking him against the wall again.

“Are you going to kill me, Jacob?” he asked, bringing his hands up to lay on Jacob’s forearms. “Jacob. _< Cousin[extant].>_”

With a wordless snarl, Jacob released him—not just dropping but actively throwing Jonathan at the ground. He bounced on the floor, wheezing.

Jacob stood a few feet away from him now, clearly paying attention to something else. Jonathan pushed himself to his feet.

“Jacob.”

“Jonathan.” His voice was raw, angry. It sounded choked. Oh, he was going to be ridiculously clingy next time he saw Dietrich, Jonathan just knew. How cute. How disgusting.

“That hurt.” He waited for the words to register with Jacob. He took the flash of regret on his brother-cousin’s face as a signal to go on. Ruthlessly, he continued. “Would you have killed me if I’d tried to fight you off?”

Jacob’s temper was legend. Jonathan recognized that he had been in very real danger up against that wall. Something to take note of.

“Don’t tempt me.”

And okay, maybe Jacob was a little bit bitter. But seriously. He could have hurt Jonathan!

“You would have killed me because of some boy you’re playing around with. Some boy from Lalonde.” Jonathan marveled. “Why, Jacob?”

“I don’t know why.” For a moment, Jacob’s ‘eyes’ met Jonathan’s. Even though he knew it was a rare coincidence, Jonathan entertained a brief notion that Jacob had abandoned his cover and gotten implants. “You don’t know him, Jonathan. He’s wonderful.”

“Wonderful. Yes, he is incredible, I’ll concede you that.” Jonathan mused, turning away and walking slowly down the hall. He darted Jacob one last smile, even though he knew the other man couldn’t see it. “He’d have to be pretty incredible. I mean, you tried to kill me for him.”

Without a word, Jacob continued down the hallway in the opposite direction as Jonathan was heading.

What a cute little temper tantrum. Jonathan shrugged his shirt, tugging at it until the wrinkles from Jacob’s fists bunched in it had nearly vanished.

Psh. Well. “Bye, sweetheart.”


	2. Syzygy

“And are you happy?” she asked, hands held at her eye level where she could see them.

“I suppose not.”

Her counterpart sat, legs crossed, dressed in long leggings and a coat unlike anything they were supposed to wear. That is what happens, the Querist supposed, when your people die and you are left alone to your own, sour machinations.

“It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Both of us without brood and the workers dying part by part.”

The Black Queen scoffed. “Oh, White Queen. Did anything ever work the way it was supposed to? I assure you, there were problems with the very first duumvirate. It’s not as though we are the first to have problems, lover mine.”

The Querist sat back, silently amused with the Black Queen’s stern outlook. “This one is more awry than most, darling. After all, both of us have deserted our positions. I am no longer the Queen.”

“Then who are you?” the Black Queen asked, interest piqued.

“A Wandering Querist, perhaps. You?”

“Sn0wman.” She replied. “I am… no longer of our kind.”

“Barren, then.” The Querist nodded knowingly. “To you as well, my lady, and our kingdoms affluence.”

“Who is your replacement?” Sn0wman asked idly. “She must be young, to be still able to take your place.”

“A Peregrine Mendicant. I’m afraid I consigned one of the Uprighteous to my position.”

“How cruel.” Sn0wman took a long draw of smoke from a sharp black cigarette holder, an affectation she’d picked up from the Cherubim. “And she accepted, did she?”

“She did,” the Querist sighed mournfully. “My segments ache, Sn0wman dearest. She is so aged, and she can only grow older. Do you remember when we were but larvae, together in the hexaçall? Oh, but we thought we would never swap ourselves out.”

“So identical, the grey children.” Sn0wman tapped the cigarette holder’s end against her cheek. “I recall.”

“Queenlings.” The Querist pondered. “I am dying, dearest. There will be no more greybrood, no more battle. The hexaçall have all been destroyed by that master of yours.”

“They would not have been destroyed had your Cherubim master not aided my Uprighteous in stealing my ring segment.” Sn0wman bristled. “I have no control over him. What was done to us was not of our own design. We are neither of us capacé of continuation.”

“I wonder.” The Querist tapped her chin with her fingertips, an expression of curiosity and doubt. “I do not believe that the battle will continue. No, it definitely will not. The kings are dead. There will be no more Duumvirates, no more children… but I do believe we will go on.”

“Oh?” Sn0wman asked bitterly, her hands trembling with emotion. “Oh? None of us survive who could hope to carry a reproductive segment, and much less are there those who could contribute full material, even if we could accept their donation.”

“Sometime, though.” The Querist said with certainty. “There is no hope for our species, certainly not, but something tells me, Sn0wman, that you will not be dead for long.”

“And what does that mean?” Sn0wman asked.

“A lot of things, I’m afraid,” the Querist sighed. “Your master—”

“He is no master of mine!” Sn0wman crushed the cigarette holder in her fist, mouthparts opening and closing with her rage. “I do not kneel to his will like one of the workers to mine!”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” the Querist challenged her. “Please. Why are you weak enough to be controlled and to stand among common Cherubim as though they are your equals?”

“They are by far my inferiors,” Sn0wman informed her loftily. “They bow to me.”

“Hollow queen, hollow throne,” the Querist shook her head. “Oh, my love. You have traveled so far beyond the limits of your understanding.”

Sn0wman’s mouthparts clicked warningly. “And you can understand? Are you so much better than I that you can condescend in this manner?”

“Oh, heavens, no.” Had the Querist eyes like those of the Cherubim and mammals, she would have rolled them. “The only thing I understand is that there is something beneath this war, beyond the rage of the Lord and the chill of the Muse. I do not know what. Really, all I know is that I know naught.”

“And thus you know everything.” Sn0wman dropped the broken cigarette holder and produced another from her pocket. “How Queenly.”

“And you sit here toying with your prey before killing her,” the Querist laughed bitterly. “How cruel.”

“I never said I was kind.” She murmured. “Nor even that I was a good Queen.”

“Your Uprighteous certainly did not think so,” the Querist said blithely, ignoring the flinch of hurt her sister-lover gave. “Darling, isn’t it about time you ended this?”

“I don’t know.” Sn0wman deliberated. “I hesitate to bring about the final death of our kind. To ring that last funeral bell.”

“You are virtuous and full of light,” the Querist sniped, annoyance getting the better of her. “I am in awe.”

“Hush, you.” Something seemed to occur to her. “Oh, my love, see the depths to which I have fallen—the lengths to which I have gone.”

She took the cigarette holder from where it was clenched in her mouthparts and stabbed it into the chitin of her narrow, delicate hand. Blue blood splashed out, dizzyingly incongruous before the Querist’s eyes.

“What lengths, indeed.” The Querist stooped to swipe a bit of the blood from the floor and examine it. “Could it even be said that you are alive?”

“I don’t know.” Sn0wman shrugged, trying to hide her dis-ease.

“Do you know what that thing did to you?” the Querist asked, wiping the blood off on her dress.

Sn0wman hissed, a sound of loathing and upset. _“No.”_

“I cannot find in myself sympathy.” The Querist said, it being her turn to be cruel. “You deserve your fate. It was you who sought the change and transformation.”

“Ah, my kind sister, your words cut deep.” Sn0wman pressed a hand to her chest, over where Cherubim kept their hearts. “I’m jealous, you know.”

“Of what?”

“You know when and how you’ll die.” She paused. “I have no measure of certainty as to any part of my fate.”

“That is a bitter sentiment,” the Querist observed.

“A bitter sentiment for a bitter time.” Said Sn0wman. “The end—mine, yours, everyone’s—is in sight, but remains a void of mystery and terror.”

“I could drink to that, I suppose.”

They sat in silence for a time, each contemplating the other, the situation, and what was about to occur.

“Might as well get on with it,” Sn0wman said, tucking away her cigarette holder. “Fast or slow?”

“Make it quick, darling.” The Querist—no, the White Queen—got to her feet and reached out. “Well?”

“Mm. Goodbye. I suppose I’ll miss you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> /…/  
>  La muerte (o su alusión) hace preciosos y patéticos a los hombres. Éstos conmueven por su condición de fantasmas; cada acto que ejecutan puede ser último; no hay rostro que no esté por desdibujarse como el rostro de un sueño. Todo, entre los mortales, tiene el valor de lo irrecuperable y de lo azaroso._
> 
> _/.../  
>  Death (or its allusion) makes men precious and pathetic. These are moved by their condition as phantasms; every act they do may be final; there is no face that is not about to blur like the face of a dream. All, among the mortals, have the value of the irrecoverable and the perilous.  
> _  
> \--José Luis Borges, El inmortal. Translation by SaturnineArbiter.


End file.
